


first one's free

by shatteredhourglass



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom Tony Stark, Disastrous Love Confessions, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends With Benefits, Identity Porn, Idiots in Love, M/M, No One Knows Tony Stark Is Iron Man, OH to have a big bathtub, POV Clint Barton, Some hurt/comfort, Tony's Love Language Is Gift Giving, Top Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:46:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24456148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: Clint Barton has a crush on Iron Man. Clint Barton is also sleeping with Tony Stark on the regular. All in all, it's a mess.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Tony Stark
Comments: 63
Kudos: 518





	first one's free

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hawksonfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawksonfire/gifts).



> For Arson. Lub you, buddy.

“I’m out of bullets,” Bucky says, voice crackling over the comms. “Barton, you got spare ammo?”

“Only for a pistol,” Clint replies. His voice comes out a little strained. He’s balanced uncomfortably on the very edge of the rooftop, one knee leg hooked over the railing as he braces his other boot on the side of the building.

The wind ruffles his hair where the beanie isn’t covering it and he winces, tries not to slip. A bird flaps past him in a hurry - probably escaping the chaos below, and Clint can’t blame them, although the ground is safer than the position _he’s_ in. There are people running down below and Clint watches them carefully as he grabs an arrow, aims at a flash of yellow that appears from behind a pillar.

“Nah, that’s no help,” Bucky answers. “Steve, I’m comin’ down to you.”

“Alright,” Steve says. “Hawkeye, can you handle ranged support on your own?”

“I was doing it for years before we got new blood. C’mon, Steve.”

He releases the arrow just as the AIM agent peeks around the corner and it nails them in the shoulder, pins them to the wall. They drop a canister of something glowing a worrying shade of green and Clint switches arrowheads, fires at the wall above the canister. It begins flashing immediately so he tucks his bow away, satisfied it’ll tell Sam where it is so he can pick it up.

Clint grabs the railing with his hands and pulls himself back onto solid ground, lets out a silent breath of relief. That is _not_ fun. He looks around for his team quickly, catches sight of Natasha. She looks like she could use some backup, so he focuses on the agents swarming her.

“MODOK coming your way, Clint,” Steve says.

“What the hell is a MODOK?”

He finds out a second later because a grotesque shape rises up from the railing in truly obnoxious shades of yellow and purple, two things that do _not_ belong together except peanut butter and jelly, and peanut butter’s more of a brown anyway.

MODOK is-

“Dude, you’re fucking horrifying to look at,” Clint says without thinking. “I’m not religious, but _Jesus Christ_.”

It swivels around to face him slowly, turns empty white eyes on him. He wonders briefly if it has the mental capacity to be offended if he throws up at the sight of it because honestly, he’s considering it. _Ugh_.

“ ** **You**** ,” it says in a grating voice, floats closer.

Clint backs up because he’s a sensible person and he does not want to fuck with this in the slightest. MODOK seems to have other ideas, keeps advancing on him. Its limbs never touch the ground - they’re far too small for the head, twisted and short and horrifying.

Yeah, he’s gotta get rid of this thing. He grabs for his bow again and has to twist out of the way of a red beam emitting from MODOK’s head. It hits the wall behind him instead and brings down a shower of rubble, a particularly large rock smacking Clint in the head and knocking him on his ass.

It keeps advancing. Clint reaches behind him, grasps uselessly at thin air. He’s been so distracted with the chaos going on that he hadn’t even noticed he’d run out of arrows. Crap.

The crystal on its head lights up again and Clint thinks about rolling off the roof, trying to catch something to slow his fall on the way down. (Bucky had suggested built-in parachutes for everyone’s suits a month ago. They should’ve _listened_.) The laser beam’s bound to maim him but if he jumps fifty stories he will definitely die so he stays where he is, cringes and then-

-a beam of light knocks MODOK into a spin, and then a flash of gold and red barrels into it.

Clint sits up, rubs his head where the debris had hit him. There’s going to be a bruise but that’s par for the course with his life. At least he’s okay. He looks up when Iron Man returns - without MODOK, thankfully.

“Think I owe you,” Clint says.

“ _First one’s free_ ,” Iron Man says. “ _Next one’ll cost you, Hawkeye._ ”

There’s a flicker of yellow over Iron Man's shoulder and Clint has a split second to make a decision. He thinks _fuck it_ , throws his bow at the AIM agent and hits them directly in the forehead. They tip backwards and then fall off the roof with a scream.

Iron Man’s helmet turns slightly at the noise - it’s impossible to tell what expression he’s wearing when the nickel-titanium alloy has no features, but the weird super-powered gun is lying on the rooftop and it had been _this_ close to going off. It’s been a close call for both of them. Clint’s used to daily near-death experiences, but he doesn’t know how his companion feels about them.

“Guess we’re even,” Clint says. He’s a little short of breath so it comes out softer than he means it to, a little too telling maybe. If Iron Man notices, he doesn’t say anything, and Clint’s grateful for that.

“ _Even,_ ” Iron Man repeats. “ _Sure._ ”

He stamps a few steps closer - there’s no other word for the way he walks, the whole metal thing makes him heavy - and then reaches out one gauntlet, holds it a few inches from Clint’s nose. It smells like ozone and blood, although the blood scent might just be from Clint and his wounds.

Iron Man doesn’t have that particular weakness. He’s all red and gold perfection, shining in the sunlight like a man-made god. Especially reaching out like this; Clint feels like he’s being offered salvation.

A few seconds of awkward silence later Clint realizes Iron Man is actually offering to help him up. Whoops. And here he was, staring like an idiot. He takes the offered hand and Iron Man pulls him to his feet. He wobbles for a second, braces himself on one red shoulder.

Iron Man doesn’t move until he’s steady, luckily.

Clint holds onto him for a little longer than he needs to. “Thanks,” he says.

“ _Pleasure’s all mine, Hawkeye,_ ” is the reply. “ _Here. So you don’t need rescuing for the next five minutes._ ”

Clint looks down at the arrow he’s been handed and his heart does a funny little wiggle in his chest. He opens his mouth to say - something, he doesn’t know what, but by the time he’s done that Iron Man has already taken to the sky again, flying at a smoking MODOK.

Probably for the best. This way he can’t confess his glaring crush on a guy he doesn’t even _know_.

“My bed is right over there,” Tony pants in his ear, breath hot on Clint’s skin. “It’s Egyptian cotton.”

“Okay,” Clint says. Does it matter where the cotton comes from? Honestly, Tony could have won him over instantly with the word _clean_ instead. He doesn’t move an inch though, keeps working his hand steadily over Tony’s dick.

It’s kind of _hard_ for him to go anywhere, considering Tony’s got him backed up against a wall in the penthouse suite. Clint’s not complaining - technically he _could_ move Tony if he wanted to considering the height disparity, but he likes it. And honestly Clint’s a little into the whole bossy thing as long as he gets to keep making Tony feel good.

Regardless of his comments about the (extremely fancy, extremely expensive) bed, a hand covers Clint’s own and tightens it slightly, quickens the pace. Clint keeps his eyes on their joined fingers, on the glimpses of flushed skin and the wet slide of precum.

Tony’s close enough that Clint can hear each harsh breath and it’s great. He likes hearing it, likes feeling Tony’s hot skin against his even without getting his own dick out. Tony’s pushing up into his fist with tiny desperate thrusts, a grunt escaping him. He’s always quieter than Clint expects.

Clint’s good with his hands - it’s what he’s knows, and it’s usually for hurting people but this is good too. Tony spills wet and hot over his fingers with a short gasp and Clint keeps touching until Tony shivers and swats his fingers away. Fair enough.

“You’re still fucking me, Barton,” Tony says, voice a little ragged. “Don’t think you’re getting out of it that easy.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Clint answers, gets his fingers slick and wet before he slides two in without a pause, watches Tony’s pupils dilate.

Clint’s crush on Iron Man is… awkward, to say the least.

It’s not going anywhere. Of _course_ it isn’t - that much would be obvious even if he did do more than fight with the guy. Tony Stark’s bodyguard-turned-hero probably has a hell of a lot better prospects than a middle-aged guy with a string on a stick. (Clint apologizes to his bow after thinking that, but there’s a canyon-sized difference between Hawkeye and Iron Man.)

There’s also the whole fact that Clint has no idea who Iron Man really is. He’s assuming the guy is human, but even that’s a stretch. Extraterrestrials aren’t exactly _uncommon_ these days. For all he knows, Iron Man could have a tail. He could be a robot. It’s terrible. Natasha laughed at him when she figured it out - apparently he has a _face_ , every time he sees someone he’s into.

The problem lies in that the things Clint _does_ know about Iron Man, he really likes. He likes the shitty takeout places Iron Man takes them to even though he can’t eat, he likes the snarky comments and the flying and that Iron Man will back him up during arguments about what the best show in existence is. (It’s Dog Cops, followed closely by Golden Girls.)

He doesn’t expect anything.

It’d be wrong to expect anything, so in true Clint Barton Disaster Extraordinaire fashion, he started sleeping with Iron Man’s boss instead.

That’s not to say he’s doing it _because_ of his crush on Iron Man - Tony’s a decent fuck, and it’s convenient. They’re both a little too well-known to the public for random hookups, and random hookups are often a lot less fun than they seem. (Clint’s had one too many close calls with people trying to steal his wallet as they suck his dick; it’s not the greatest way to end the night.)

It’s good, it’s just… a little weird, maybe.

“Good job, team,” Steve says. “That’s the third mission in a row without any serious injuries, so we can have takeout tonight.”

“Hell yeah,” Sam says, trades a high-five with an amused-looking Bucky.

Technically they can have takeout whenever they like because they’re all adults but Steve makes faces at them if they eat unhealthy food all the time, especially with the non-enhanced people. It’s easier to just give him what he wants, even if what he wants is for them to eat steamed broccoli and boiled chicken. Recently he’s started rewarding them for not getting hurt (Clint’s pretty sure Steve thinks he’s their dad now - which considering Clint’s relationship with his old man before he croaked, it’s a little weird.)

They all start walking towards the Tower - luckily the supervillain of the week had deigned to come to them, so it’s only a block away - except for Iron Man, who turns to look at Clint.

“What?”

“ _You’re not coming?_ ”

“Sure I am,” Clint says, waves his hand noncommittally. “Just gotta pick up some arrows, you know how it is. Can’t waste all those perfectly good weapons - and picking up litter’s good for the environment.”

Iron Man is silent for a moment. It feels a little bit like he’s getting a judgemental stare, but it’s hard to tell with the whole expressionless metal mask thing. Clint stays where he is, propped up against a conveniently fallen pillar, tries for a smile that feels brittle and off-kilter on his face.

“ _Want a ride?_ ”

“Nah,” Clint says. “You go catch up with the others, I’m getting there. Don’t worry about me.”

He keeps the smile plastered on his face until Iron Man blasts off into the sky, holds it for a few more seconds until he physically can’t keep it up anymore. Then he lets it fall, huffs out a breath and tries not to scream. God, he’s getting old. Why does everything _hurt_?

Clint’s gonna have to move eventually though, so he pushes off of the pillar and then promptly trips over his own aching feet and falls face-first onto the sidewalk.

“ _Yeah,_ ” Iron Man says from behind him. “ _That’s what I thought._ ”

Metal fingers curl under his arms with a surprising amount of gentleness, scoops him up off the concrete and then lift up into the air. Clint frowns at the open sky and tries not to read too much into it. Thankfully, he’s deposited on his own balcony and not anywhere the others can spot him.

“Do _not_ tell Steve about this,” he warns.

“ _Because_ that’s _your biggest problem_ ,” Iron Man replies. “ _Do I need to send a medical expert up here?_ ”

“Nah. And I _mean_ it. I’m just gonna sleep it off,” Clint says.

“ _If you say so,_ ” Iron Man answers.

“Barton?”

“Stark? Sorry, I’m kind of busy with SHIELD work so I’m not up for sex tod- uh.”

Clint forgets Tony can enter as many locked doors as he wants because he _owns_ the place, which results in the door sliding open as Clint’s sprawled out on the carpet, trying to get his shirt off the bed with outstretched toes.

Clint’s not worried about Tony seeing him shirtless - he’s seen more than that before, after all. What he _is_ worried about is Tony seeing the mottled green and blue bruising spread from his left shoulder right down to his hip. Clint caught sight of it in his bathroom mirror earlier and it’s a little nauseating, honestly, and he doesn’t want the others to know.

“Guess I can’t bribe you into silence with money, huh,” Clint says weakly.

Tony looks him over for another few seconds and then disappears.

Clint lets himself flop back onto the carpet with a sigh. Maybe he can roll off the balcony before Steve comes to lecture him, or Natasha comes to give him that unimpressed stare she has. He doesn’t have to worry about any of that, as it turns out, because Tony reappears ten minutes later and hustles him upstairs to the penthouse.

“I’m still not having sex with you right now,” Clint says. “Unless you want the world's most unenthusiastic handjob.”

“I don’t. Now get in,” Tony says, steers him into the bathroom.

Clint blinks at the bathtub and then tries to stare at Tony. With the way he’s being supported all he can really do is send a searching look at the top of his head. _Bubbles_? Tony ran him a _bath_? That seems… a lot, for fuck buddies. It could be that he’s just not used to people being nice.

“I’m gonna have to pay for this later, aren’t I,” Clint mutters as he steps into the warm water. It’s soothing on his sore ankles, and if he _does_ have to pay for it later maybe it’s worth it.

“First one’s free,” Tony answers under his breath. Something about that feels familiar, but he can’t recall where from.

Luckily he doesn’t slip, and Tony doesn’t let him fall, and it turns out that hot water is _orgasmic_.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Clint groans, sinks down further. “Shit, Stark, why were you keeping this to yourself?”

“Because this is my penthouse and I make a point of not sharing a bathroom with anyone but Rhodey. Stay there,” Tony instructs, pointing a finger at him.

Clint doesn’t know if he even _can_ get out of the tub without help. He’s stretched out and his toes _still_ can’t touch the other end. It’s amazing. He may never get out. Beds seem irrelevant in the face of all these bubbles; his is his home now and he is happy here. Even his bruises feel less painful under the water.

Doesn’t share with anyone but Rhodes, huh.

What does _that_ mean?

“I shouldn’t be letting you do this,” Clint mumbles.

He doesn’t mean to say it out loud. It’s just that the hot water has rendered him boneless and drowsy and he’s got no clue how he ended up spread eagle on Tony’s fancy bed. Now he finally understands the appeal of this Egyptian cotton business. His bare ass is on the million-dollar bedcover and it’s both funny and a little horrifying.

“Why not?”

“I don’t let anyone but Nat help,” Clint says uselessly.

Mostly because Natasha doesn’t take _no_ for an answer. He tips his head to the side to watch Tony toss aside the old bandaids and gauze. It’s useless because he _is_ letting someone that isn’t Nat do it, and the worst part is that he kind of likes it. Tony starts rewrapping his wrists with new compression bandages and Clint stares up at the ceiling, wonders how he got here, letting goddamn _Tony Stark_ patch him up.

“You want me to stop?”

Tony clearly knows the answer because he doesn’t actually stop what he’s doing while he waits for Clint’s answer. “No,” Clint answers anyway, because it feels rude not to after what Tony’s doing for him. “You can - it’s okay.”

“What happened to not trusting me?”

What - oh yeah. He’d said that, hadn’t he? When they’d first moved into the Tower and Tony had just dropped Natasha off on her own floor, and he and Clint had been alone in the elevator. Kind of a dick move, but he stands by it.

“It’s not _personal_ ,” Clint says drowsily. “It’s just that I don’t trust people with a lot of money and power on principle. And Nat’s getting settled, y’know? This is _good_ for her, and you could get tired of us and just… yank it all away.”

“Guess it wouldn’t help if I promised not to,” Tony answers.

“Nah. You’re pretty okay, though.”

“Thanks, Merida,” Tony says dryly. “How about you?”

“How about me what?”

“Is this…” and he waves at the room in general, “…good for you too? You getting settled?”

“I guess,” Clint answers noncommittally. “I like the sex. And the coffee machine.”

Tony snorts, sets Clint’s neatly-wrapped wrist on the mattress carefully. “You’re not getting sex or coffee right now, Barton. You can have painkillers and water.”

“So,” Natasha says. “You and Stark.”

“Me and Stark _what_ ,” Clint replies, barely looking up from where he’s trying to stack a pile of coins on top of Tony’s delivery roomba.

Friendly Delivery Robot seems happy with this turn of events and he’s got one mechanical arm held out to take more coins. It’s at this point Clint realizes he might be bored. Tony’s been out on a conference for the last two days and there’s been no Avengers-related disasters to take care of - his life just revolves around those two things now, huh. That’s not great.

Natasha gives him a no-nonsense look. “What happened to Iron Man?”

The coins clatter to the ground and Clint sighs as FDR lets out a beep and starts picking them up again. He wonders if he can get away with just picking up the robot and running for it, but FDR would probably get disoriented if he tried that, and that’s no good. He feels bad for the thing, even knowing it’s a robot with limited emotional capacity.

“That’s a lost cause and you know it,” Clint says.

“Doesn’t make the feelings go away.”

“Yeah,” Clint replies, giving FDR another coin. “That’s why I’m not doing anything with Tony. It’s just sex, nothing else.”

“Sure it is,” Natasha says before she gets up and leaves.

Clint has the distinct feeling she knows something he doesn’t.

“See something you like?”

“Nah,” Clint answers, feels a smile tug at his lips. “Just an old man and his robots.”

Tony doesn’t look at him - doesn’t look away from what he’s doing at all, really. The neon light from the holograms are tinting his hair a myriad of colours, catching on the little flecks of silver in his goatee and turning them green and blue. He’s got his tongue sticking out as he tinkers - just the tip, (ha), but it’s oddly endearing.

Clint only ever achieves that kind of sharp focus with a bow in his hands.

Still, he’s more than happy to just sit here and watch Tony work. Steve is still banned from the last time he came down here and started a fight about making Tony train with them, so the only other person that comes down here is Bruce, and you can barely ever tell when Bruce is here. (Tony might be an engineer, but it feels cruel to make him train with supersoldiers and assassins in peak physical condition.)

It’s peaceful.

It’s a nice little bubble of Tony’s personal space and Clint’s allowed to share in it, which is… more than he thought he’d get. All that trust talk, he figured Tony would get offended. Instead he’s hanging out in the lab watching the guy work.

Something bumps into Clint’s ankle and he looks down to see FDR the robot sitting next to him. It’s got a Iron Man action figure in one hand, and the robot holds it out to him.

Right.

Clint had set himself _rules_ to this relationship, rules that were meant to stop his useless heart from doing dumb things. He thumbs at the bandages on his left wrist, looks down at his knees. Yeah, he should probably leave. This is overstepping his boundaries.

“Done,” Tony says, sounding satisfied. “Here.”

Clint catches the small box easily when it’s thrown at his head, puts it down on the table to open. He’s greeted with the sight of two small earpieces painted in a deep, metallic purple. They light up with a soft yellow light when he touches them and Clint looks over at Tony, doesn’t know what his face is doing.

“Figured a blue light might bring back bad memories,” Tony comments.

“You made me new hearing aids?”

“The old ones were bothering you, right?”

They _were_ bothering him, but Clint hasn’t told anyone that. Hasn’t even hinted at it in the slightest. He doesn’t even like people knowing that he needs hearing aids in the first place. For Tony to have noticed and then make new ones to fix that problem, _and_ to get rid of the blue light just in case it upset him…

“We need to have sex now,” Clint says, closes the box.

“No,” Tony says. “No, nope. We’re having sex in the bed today.”

It’s not exactly ideal - Clint doesn’t want to get _involved_ , he’s doing this so he gets distracted and stops having feelings all over the place. His jeans are all tangled around his knees and he kicks them off distractedly, returns to haphazardly unbuttoning Tony’s stupid dress shirt. Where did the easy-access tank top go? He likes that one.

Tony gets _his_ shirt off easy enough, mostly because it’s a sleeveless hoodie that just unzips at the front. Somehow they manage to get everything else off except for the goddamn button-up. Luckily Tony looks good with it on so it’s not exactly a problem.

“Down,” Tony instructs, shoving Clint down on the mattress.

Clint goes, mostly because he doesn’t have a choice (Tony is surprisingly strong) and also because it’s hot as hell. He’s a little frantic when he reaches for bare skin and black silk, tries to catch ahold of Tony so he can do something. He doesn’t succeed because Tony’s ducked out of the way to grab the lube.

“Let me-” he starts, but Tony’s already straddling his hips.

There’s no way he’s ready for it but he slicks up Clint’s dick anyway and sinks down. Clint’s stuck looking at the line of his throat, the nearly-graceful arch of his body underneath the shirt. They stopped using condoms weeks ago and there’s nothing stopping Clint from feeling the hot grip around his cock, a soft noise slipping from his lips unbidden. God, it feels so good.

It _looks_ so good - Tony’s eye-catching all the time, but like this Clint just gets to watch him in motion, lifts his hands to cup Tony’s hips gently.

“That’s it,” Tony says, satisfied.

The whole point of this was to distract him though, and he’s very much not distracted. It’s easy to roll them over carefully, and he hitches Tony’s thighs higher over his hips before setting a rhythm.

“What do you want?”

“This,” Tony says, cups Clint’s cheeks and pulls him close enough that Clint can smell the mints on his breath. “Just this, c’mon, _harder_.”

Clint obliges and Tony tugs him an inch closer until their lips are connected.

It takes him a few minutes of slow, easy kissing that makes him feel warm right down to his toes before Clint realizes they haven’t done this until now. It wasn’t a _rule_ or anything, but they’ve never kissed before now, not a single time. Kissing wasn’t on his no-list and he’s taking that small victory because it’s _nice_ , Tony’s goatee rasping against his skin, the softness of his lips.

“Feels good,” Tony breathes. “Don’t stop.”

“Bossy,” Clint says, but it sounds too fond to be judgmental.

The expression on Tony’s face is probably meant to be a smirk. It’s soft around the edges, though, too gentle to be antagonistic. It’s also kind of stupidly beautiful and that’s what makes Clint’s heart sink in his chest.

It’s at this point that Clint realizes he might be in love with Tony Stark.

Oh, the gods _do_ hate him after all.

“Good job,” Tony says, pats his bare hip. “This was fun. It’d be a better thank you if you’d actually wear the hearing aids, but I’ll take the mindblowing sex too.”

Clint feels warm inside when Tony kisses him again, then cold when he realizes what he’s doing.

What’s wrong with him?

“Well, I have a conference to get to - this was fun, Legolas,” Tony remarks as he sits up and the panic that surges up Clint’s throat is stupid and unwanted, and it makes no sense. It doesn’t stop him from catching Tony’s hip, from sliding off the mattress and onto his knees because he knows he looks good there. 

“Or you could stay,” he offers, because sex is the only language he’s fluent in and he doesn’t know how else to keep Tony interested in him. 

“How does one guy have this much energy for sex,” Tony says. “You’re miles away from being a teenager. Seriously, Barton?”

Clint doesn’t answer verbally. He’s fucking terrible at words, so he makes do with leaning in to suck at a mark he’s already left on Tony’s hip, braces one hand on his knee. There’s no explanation for this mess, nothing he can do except try to fuck his way out of it.

Tony sighs like he’s tired of this, but his fingers wind into Clint’s hair anyway, tug him in closer until his mouth’s rubbing wetly over Tony’s now half-hard dick.

Then Tony tugs him away again and he barely stifles a whine.

“Talk to me.”

“You want dirty talk? I can do dirty talk,” Clint answers distractedly. “Seems more like your thing though.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it,” Tony says. “Barton. _Clint_. Tell me what’s got you acting like Loki’s been sticking his fingers in your brain again or I’m going to actually get worried.”

“I didn’t act like this with Loki,” Clint replies. Why would Stark be worried? That’s not a thing they do. _Not a thing_ the same way that running baths and making hearing aids and kissing is, come to think of it, so maybe there aren’t things they don’t do anymore. That’s… not a good sign. He might be panicking now, just a little bit.

“If I break you, I won’t have anyone to make fun of Rogers with me,” Tony says, letting go of his hair. “Brucie’s no good for that.”

“I’m in love with you,” Clint blurts out.

Fuck, did he say that out loud? Tony’s staring at him.

“But I’m also in love with someone else,” he finishes, because why not let the whole mess out while he’s sitting here. “And I don’t- it’s a whole fucking mess. I’m sorry.”

“You’re in love with someone else,” Tony repeats flatly. 

“I _know_ ,” Clint says. “But it’s-”

Tony raises a hand to stop him from talking. The gesture feels angry but there’s nothing in Tony’s eyes when he looks at Clint, and that’s actually scarier than if he’d been visibly furious. “I don’t want to know, Barton. That is the worst love confession anyone has ever done in their _life_ , and I’ve sure as hell witnessed some pretty fucking terrible ones!”

“I wasn’t going to _lie_ about it-”

“You tell me you’re in love with me and then hit me with _that_? What’s wrong with you?”

“Lots of things are wrong with me,” Clint shouts back. He’s getting caught up in the raised voices - should tone it down, probably, but he’s feeling all kinds of things and most of them are bad. “You _know_ that, Tony, that’s why you like me.”

“Yeah,” Tony says, so bitter that it’s almost palpable. “I do like you. That’s what’s wrong with _me_.”

“You mean-"

“I mean I’m not a consolation prize,” Tony says. “Out.”

Clint goes. He also forgets his pants, but that seems less important in the scheme of things.

“ _The mission ended five hours ago._ ”

“Yeah,” Clint says hollowly. “Guess it did.”

He’s sitting on a rooftop overlooking the rest of the city, staring out into nothing. There’s a sky and a ground and buildings and people tiny underneath him like ants, but Clint’s not paying attention to any of that. His mouth still tastes like blood from where Kingpin had punched him and the ache’s been going on for so long that it feels like a part of him.

He’s also out of arrows again, which is unfortunate.

“ _Widow’s getting worried_ ,” Iron Man says.

Clint doesn’t look at him. “No, she isn’t.”

“ _She does that thing with her eyebrows,_ ” Iron Man adds - which is _true_ , she does do that, but how has he figured that out? - as he stamps over to where Clint’s dangling his legs over the edge, sits down as well. He looks fine, probably because Fisk can’t fly to get him. God, sometimes Clint wants a wing pack too. “ _You gonna stay up here all night then?_ ”

“Yep,” Clint says.

“ _Alright_ ,” Iron Man replies.

They sit in silence for a while. The air’s getting cold, and Clint should have brought a jacket or something because he’s going to catch a chill. Instead he’s stuck with this vest - should’ve worn the shirt with sleeves instead, what was he thinking?

“You got a girl back home, Tin Can?”

“ _Nah. Thought I had a guy._ ”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “It’s like that sometimes, huh.”

Iron Man stands up to leave and Clint stares into nothing, thinks about how he’s managed to ruin every relationship he’s ever had. He should’ve just kept his mouth shut. It’s never happened before now - he can’t _stop_ himself - but he wishes he could, sometimes.

“This’d be a lot easier if you weren’t exactly my type,” Clint says, and he doesn’t mean for Iron Man to hear him but he hears metal boots clank to a stop anyway.

“ _What?_ ”

“I fucked your employer,” Clint replies instead of answering. “And I can’t go home because I’m in love with you too.”

The silence drags on for so long that Clint has to glance behind him to check if Iron Man’s still there. Sure enough, there he is, blank gold face turned in Clint’s direction. He’s not _doing_ anything though and Clint thinks briefly that it’s just typical for his life. First he makes his landlord mad and now he’s broken Earth’s Mightiest Defender.

“ _You’re an idiot, Barton._ ”

“I’m aware,” Clint says.

“ _No_ ,” and Clint’s breath catches in his throat as the face plate lifts, revealing an exasperated Tony Stark, “you’re an _idiot,_ Barton.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah, _huh_ ,” Tony says. “You mean all that shit could’ve been _avoided?_ ”

“If you’d let me finish earlier you would’ve _known!_ ”

“Oh - for god’s sake. Are you going to be like this all the time?”

“First one’s free, I guess,” Clint answers, lifts one shoulder in a shrug.

Tony rolls his eyes but he also reaches out a hand to help him to his feet, and there’s the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. Clint accepts the help, stifles a groan as his knees protest.

Maybe this’ll work after all, if he’s lucky.


End file.
